


Revenge of the Amatorculists

by luchia



Series: stupid terrorist boys [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 15:51:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1475452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luchia/pseuds/luchia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh, this is <i>very</i> new,” Grantaire says, and ends up rubbing at his eyes because this is <i>insane</i>. His husband is examining his dress’ hem line while a fan books them a hotel room so they can fulfill Enjolras’ fantasy of making himself jealous of himself.</p><p>(Or: Crossdressing porn because Enjolras is a moron angsting about his husband's bisexuality and Grantaire just doesn't have the heart to tell him what he's <i>actually</i> doing with this whole dress-and-heels thing.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revenge of the Amatorculists

**Author's Note:**

> This should technically be in Senselessly Happy and Unsuspecting but oh well! Just embrace the timetable or something. Takes place at around a month or two before Clepsydra!

It’s not uncommon for Enjolras to suggest meeting for lunch when they’ve gone their own ways for a few hours. It isn’t uncommon for Grantaire to get there first, either. Enjolras has a thousand more obligations than Grantaire, and he isn’t surprised by the fact he’s the only person sitting at a table for two. It’s just the way their lives are. 

Besides, they’re meeting at 1:30. Enjolras has obviously had a busy day already. He’s ready for a lunch full of Enjolras doing that thing he does when he’s stressed where he just wants to order Grantaire around, and that’s fine. Grantaire is wholeheartedly happy to be whatever he needs. And if that means being coddled and controlled for an hour before Enjolras dives back into the fray, he’s more than willing.

He orders coffee and waits patiently, watching people walk past. It’s a nice spring day, the kind of day that is suited to bouquets of flowers and young idiots falling in love. Grantaire would pull his tiny sketchbook out of his coat, set himself to drawing some of the Parisians striding through the cities. His eyes follow a laughing elderly couple, holding hands and obstructing traffic without a care. He watches a teenaged Gavroche wannabe attempt to jump from one ledge to another and fall flat on his ass, much to the amusement of his friends.

But when Grantaire spots the woman striding her way down the street, his entire body goes rigid.

It makes sense, he thinks logically, since he will freak out otherwise because he isn’t used to being smashed over the head with attraction. It’s always been a dull awareness because Enjolras is a wildfire in his mind, and that’s why this makes sense. The woman has a nice red dress on, black nylons, high heels, and Enjolras-blonde hair. An echo of Enjolras could definitely cause this bizarre jolt of lust. As the woman gets closer, he sees how much this makes sense because her facial structure is similar, her hair is the right length (although _much_ better kept, like she came straight from a salon).

Plus, she does that thing Enjolras doesn’t realize he does, where if he’s incredibly pissed off he ends up walking like a runway model. Which Grantaire now understands is because his parents were _actual_ runway models. Sort of. Point is, the woman walking towards the café does the same tightly controlled hips, tense shoulders, an extra bit of slouch in viciously precise steps with jaw clenched and Grantaire’s coffee cup shatters on the patio because _holy fuck it’s Enjolras in drag_.

Grantaire gapes at Enjolras as he expertly walks his high heeled way to the other seat at Grantaire’s table and slides his (new) sunglasses off of his eyes. He’s wearing makeup, too. For a single insane moment, Grantaire wonders if he has a secret female twin.

“You would not believe the day I’m having,” Enjolras says, sounding very grumpy and completely like himself. He has a purse. He drops it on the ground, and probably ruins his lipstick by taking a long drink of water.

“I think I’m missing something,” Grantaire says.

“The dress?” Enjolras asks.

“ _Why_ the dress?” Grantaire asks, and a perfectly manicured, perfectly Enjolras hand holds Grantaire’s above the table, and it’s definitely Enjolras. This is absolutely definitely Enjolras in shockingly perfect drag. If he didn’t speak, the entire restaurant would believe he was female.

Enjolras shrugs. “I was planning to do this, and today just seemed like a good day for it. If you’re not okay with it, I have pants in the bag-”

“Oh, I’m okay with it,” Grantaire says quickly. “I just – is this something I missed? I mean, it’s fine, whatever, you know I’d be helplessly in love with you no matter what you did, but. This is new. Isn’t it? I haven’t been oblivious for four years?”

Enjolras looks very, very unimpressed. “It’s new. And temporary.” He smiles, then. “I thought it could be fun.”

“You look amazing,” Grantaire says.

It makes Enjolras smile proudly. “Thank you, I put a lot of work into this,” he says. In a stunning show of decorum, he points his free hand right at one of the small breasts he’s somehow managed to acquire. “This bra was _not_ cheap, and I had everything tailored for more fake curves.” He adjusts their hands, twisting them from simple hand-holding to slotting their fingers together. Enjolras’ manicured nails feel bizarre and _fantastic_ against the top of Grantaire’s hand. “Really, I’m just going to give that tailor a retainer fee.”

“Lace glove man?” Grantaire asks, surprised.

“He has a name, you know,” Enjolras says, but doesn’t provide it. He leans back in the chair, stretching his spine a bit before looking at the café’s menu. “Did you order?”

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Grantaire says, and pulls his hand away to grab his napkin and quickly wipe at the already probably hopeless coffee stain on his pants.

There’s shards of ceramic to pick up too, but the moment he reaches for one Enjolras gets a handful of shirt and stops him, saying, “You’re going to cut yourself, leave it alone.”

“If I can handle knives, I can handle a broken cup, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. Enjolras lets out a frustrated huff of air, but he lets go, leaving Grantaire to bend down and try to pick up the broken pieces of his expectations for this lunch.

It’s a matter of moments between when he leans back down and when he feels one of Enjolras’ high heeled feet brush against the inside of his knee, with _purpose_ , even if it’s only a touch right now, and Grantaire jerks so hard he hits his head on the bottom of the table. The foot moves away immediately, and so does Enjolras, because he’s in his pampering mood and clearly isn’t fully thinking about what he’s doing. Grantaire’s head is lifted up by long nails and Enjolras has also obviously forgotten how much taller he is like this because he leaves Grantaire bowed down to get a better look at the back of his head, and that just leaves him at eye level with the hem of Enjolras’ very nice red dress.

“I should’ve warned you,” Enjolras says, nails sliding through Grantaire’s hair and across his lightly-aching head, and he has to bite his lower lip because _oh fuck_. “Would it have been okay if I’d warned you?”

“It was okay even without the warning,” Grantaire says.

He reminds himself that they’re in a very public place and for all he knows Enjolras just decided wearing dresses looks fun and he wanted to try one on and wanted to do it right. He does weird shit like that sometimes, will try just about anything if you can convince him it’s not a complete waste of time, although he has to do it as fully and completely as possible. He’s empirically adventurous. Wearing full, mindblowingly perfect drag could definitely fall into that category. And that means Grantaire is going to just _respect this_ and give compliments as is appropriate and be supportive and just figure out what’s going on before taking any action at all in any direction because fuck if he knows what’s going on.

“I’m fine,” Grantaire says, and bats Enjolras’ hand away.

“Be more careful,” Enjolras says, and once again completely forgets he’s wearing a dress and heels because he leans down and starts picking up shards and _he is wearing panties_ and oh fuck he’s wearing _garters_ and makes a strange bitten-off noise and Grantaire immediately stands up, moves forward, and grabs him by the shoulders and bends him backwards in his arms so he isn’t flashing his panties at everyone. Jesus, Enjolras is wearing panties, and his nylons have completely unnecessary lines down the back, and Grantaire wants to know what else but nylons is being _respectful_. And Jesus fucking Christ, Enjolras really doesn’t do anything halfway, does he.

“And you say I need to be more careful,” Grantaire says, heart beating inappropriately fast. The fabric of his dress is simple soft cotton. He means to step back, let go of Enjolras and tell him the absentee waiter can just fucking deal with it when he finally shows up. That’s what he means to do. Instead, he stands there and keeps Enjolras in some sort of bizarre half dip and watches Enjolras. “Why are you doing this?”

Enjolras smiles at him, and his lipstick is perfect. It’s a small smile, somewhere between delighted and smug. “Because your coffee cup is in pieces all over the ground,” he says, and wraps an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders.

Grantaire has to take a moment to process that, tilts Enjolras back to being upright and looking like an individual who doesn’t need any support. “I – me? You did this because of _me?_ What’d I do?”

“You didn’t do anything,” Enjolras says, exasperated. “And I did this for me, too. I will also repeat that I have pants if you want me to change-”

“You’re fine,” Grantaire says, and runs a hand down his face, sits down and tries to breathe. “I just didn’t expect this is all. Or for you to go this far.”

“I went this far for _me_ ,” Enjolras says firmly. “Besides, I’ve worn skirts before.”

Grantaire can’t think of any way to explain to him that skirts worn in the privacy of their own apartment just for sex reasons is very different than walking around outside dressed and curved and _shaped_ like a woman. His high heels are _very_ high, his dress is mid-thigh, what glimpse he had of Enjolras’ panties was a black fabric that’s a single thread count away from being see-through. “Is this for the same reason as the skirts?” Grantaire asks.

“Partly,” Enjolras says, and he’s getting awkward now, which means Grantaire is getting closer to the reasoning behind this. He sighs and sits back down, makes that same tight noise as the last time he bent over when he grabs his purse and pulls out enough money to pay for the coffee and also a new cup. His underwear is probably tight, almost painfully so, Grantaire realizes, and he has to concentrate on how to breathe for a moment.

Enjolras stands back up and gets a handful of Grantaire’s shirt, and he barely has to tug for Grantaire to stand. Enjolras takes his hand and starts towing him along. Grantaire, as usual, is more than happy to follow.

“No lunch?” Grantaire asks.

“No lunch,” Enjolras agrees, and easily weaves their way through the streets.

“You’re really good at walking in heels,” Grantaire comments.

“I practiced,” Enjolras says.

“Of course you did,” Grantaire says, because Enjolras is completely ridiculous, from the top of his well-coiffed head down to his high heeled feet. He has plenty of experience with lighting a cigarette while Enjolras tows him along like this by now, deftly fetching a cigarette from the pack and pressing it between his lips while he lights it one-handed. It’s not easy, but he’s certainly perfected the method. 

Enjolras slows slightly, glancing back to watch.

“So what’s the rest of the reason for this?” Grantaire asks. He in no way believes this wasn’t thoroughly premeditated. It might have just felt like a good day for it or something, but Enjolras has some sort of plan. He always does.

The look that crosses Enjolras’ face is completely bizarre, entirely out of place. It’s some blend of guilt, anxiety, and awkwardness, with just a bit of that steel he gets inside of him when he’s getting _extra_ possessive. Which is kind of terrifying, considering Enjolras’ usual level of possessive assholeishness.

It takes a moment for Enjolras to decide what to do about the question, and Grantaire is _not_ expecting this choice. He twists them away from the street, down a side street, and says, “Find us a door.”

Grantaire knows Paris pretty well, which Enjolras knows, and he assumes Enjolras has a reason for this – he probably needs more privacy. Really, Enjolras should’ve just done this in the apartment, but then again there’d be less shock factor that way. He doesn’t know what exactly Enjolras is after, and that’s fine. He leads for once, lets out a long exhale of smoke as he tries to remember exactly what is on this street. “A door to what?”

“Somewhere private, without people, where we can talk and not be interrupted,” Enjolras says.

Which, fair enough. He knows a couple of places a few streets away, but there’s one that’ll work well enough near here for temporary use.

Grantaire remembers things, in a way he’s never been able to really explain. Numbers and directions and maps just _stick_ , so he knows he’s right when he stops them in front of a peeling yellow door.

Grantaire has to let go of Enjolras’ hand so he can work the door open. It’s an old door, one that the residents (or the one in particular that Grantaire slept with once) never lock because you have to know the trick to it. He twists the doorknob, shoves upwards, and then in, hard. It scrapes against the already-ruined mosaic beneath, but they’re in the atrium of an old apartment building. It’s kind of run down, but Grantaire has been in the rooms. They’re nice.

Enjolras looks around, examining the stairway that spirals up, at the chaise and the two chairs with a table between them – a semblance of a lobby. “Well done, Grantaire,” he says, obviously pleased, and Grantaire can’t help but feel proud for some ridiculous reason. Yes, well done, Grantaire, good job. You found an unlocked apartment building. He watches Enjolras trail his manicured fingers over the mailboxes, counting them. “It’ll do for now.”

Grantaire sighs, and just keeps smoking, because what else can he do? “You were going to tell me the reason you’re dressed as a woman today,” Grantaire prompts carefully. Enjolras is definitely not just ‘in a dress.’

“Right,” Enjolras says, more to fill the silence than anything else. He holds his purse in front of him, both hands on the straps, the bag hanging between his slightly-spread legs, and it looks ridiculous. “We’ve reached an anniversary.”

Fuck, Grantaire can’t remember what anniversary. They don’t even celebrate anniversaries, do they? Grantaire can’t remember actually doing that. There might be something he’s missing – well there’s _obviously_ something he’s missing, fuck, he needs to think of something for Enjolras now doesn’t he.

“And I – for fuck’s sake, Grantaire, calm down, you didn’t miss anything, I promise,” Enjolras says firmly, and strides over to press Grantaire against the wall. “It’s an anniversary for _you_. I’m not involved.” He pauses. “Well, I’m involved. Sort of.”

“I have no idea what you’re trying to say,” Grantaire says very very honestly.

He watches Enjolras steel himself, and he knows the reason is coming, that Enjolras is just going to say it straight out, no sugarcoating. “It’s been two years since you fucked a woman,” he says.

What.

He.

_What?_

“I don’t doubt that you’re happy with me, but you can’t deny that you _are_ missing out on sex with women, it’s a fact you aren’t having sex with women anymore and you wouldn’t no matter what I told you to do since you think you’d be cheating on me for some reason-” Enjolras says quickly, sharply, almost defensively, and Grantaire has to interrupt. It’s useless and adds _nothing_ but he still has to interrupt.

“What the fuck, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, narrowly avoiding shouting.

“You shouldn’t be missing out on things just for me,” Enjolras says firmly.

“You’re shitting me,” Grantaire says. “I can’t possibly be hearing this.”

“And I want to give you anything you could want, so-”

“We have some fucking communication issues to work out, Enjolras,” Grantaire snaps.

Enjolras shuts up immediately and backs away.

Grantaire has to tell Enjolras, “You don’t have to do this, okay, bisexuality doesn’t mean I’m going to shrivel up and die if I only have sex with a man for the rest of my life. I appreciate the thought. Kind of. It’s really, _really_ fucked up, but I get where you’re coming from, and it’s sweet, in a you kind of way. You think like this. I get that. But I am _thrilled_ with the current state of my sex life, Enjolras. I am _so_ satisfied. I don’t need this.”

“I know that,” Enjolras says when Grantaire moves his hand. Enjolras is starting to get frustrated, because he hasn’t said it right, and he likes being _right_ , so Grantaire just waits. “But you’re different with women, Grantaire. You brought people home sometimes, when we had different rooms. You’d be on the other side of the wall and I could hear you sometimes, and you were different than you are with me.”

This is something old, then. This is one more unnecessary secret between them, something they’ve hidden just because they hid _so many_ things, kept so many things quietly to themselves.

Enjolras steps forward again, wraps a hand in Grantaire’s hair, and says, “I love every single thing about you, Grantaire. It is _terrifying_ how much I love you, how much I _want you_ , and I know I’m fucked up. I know that. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting even this. I told you I did this for me, and I _did_. It’s selfish and ludicrous but I want you to – god, I want to know what it _feels like_.”

Grantaire immediately realizes that this is a fantasy.

He also realizes that Enjolras has no idea this is a fantasy.

Every time he ever brought _anyone_ home when their rooms were that close, he was intentionally loud, spitefully so, desperately trying to be indifferent to anything other than him and his partner getting off. At the time, he’d just imagined he’d be forcing an aggravated Enjolras to cover his ears with a pillow to get some sleep. Obviously, from the way Enjolras is bending down to bite lightly at his earlobe, that wasn’t the case.

“What are you asking for?” Grantaire asks. He knows, though. It’s ridiculous, just like Enjolras.

“I want to know what they felt like. I want to know what the fuck you were doing on the other side of that wall, Grantaire. I want you to show me. I want you to touch me like it doesn’t fucking matter,” Enjolras says, breath hot, words pressed against his jaw. “It was always women, Grantaire, why was it always women?”

Grantaire slides a hand onto his shoulder, because it’s enough permission for Enjolras to move even closer, and that really is a fantastic bra because it feels like breasts pressed against his chest. Enjolras’ hands move under the hem of Grantaire’s shirt and he can’t do anything but shudder when those _fucking_ nails drag against his stomach. “You know why it was always women,” he says simply, and he sounds more breathy than he’d like.

“I do, fuck, I do,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire expects a kiss. He expects more words. He expects Enjolras to bite his jaw and say, _what do you want, Grantaire_. That’s what he expects. Instead, Enjolras’ nails bite into Grantaire’s waist as he leans down. Enjolras slowly drops to his knees with a pause in the motion when he sharply gasps against Grantaire’s stomach and it’s the panties it has to be the fucking panties _something_ is happening there and Grantaire _needs_ to know what it is.

Someone could come in at any moment, someone could come down from their apartment, there might be a fucking security camera in here, but Enjolras is kneeling in a red dress and stiletto heels with his forehead pressed against Grantaire’s stomach.

Before Enjolras can say a word, before Enjolras can do anything else because Grantaire will lose his fucking mind and think _fuck it_ and that’s not okay, he can’t do that, he has to say something. He can’t say no because Enjolras will freeze and back off, can’t say stop because Enjolras will _stop_ and probably never start again, and this seems like something he _needs_ to do. So Grantaire quickly says, “Not here.”

It works. Enjolras groans against his stomach, nuzzles against the waist of his pants, _Jesus_. He’s very obviously not happy about this, but Grantaire can tell he can understand the reasoning. Grantaire is not getting a blowjob from his husband in drag while they’re in an open atrium in the middle of Paris. He reaches down, gets Enjolras onto his feet (and again that _fucking_ whine, Grantaire is going to die if he doesn’t get to see what is going on with those panties), thinks of maps, and says, “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

“What?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire grabs Enjolras’ purse, takes him by the hand, and quickly leads him back onto the street.

Enjolras hasn’t done the fantasy thing, not really. He doesn’t even seem to realize that’s what he’s doing, but Grantaire has done this before. Grantaire knows how this works, so he lets go of Enjolras’ hand and wraps an arm around his waist instead. “That’s where we met,” he says, and motions towards the peeling door. He looks into Enjolras’ eyes, and he’s following, even if he’s still not quite sure what the fuck Grantaire is talking about. “Tell me why I was there and wasn’t in the hotel.”

It’s hard to keep the _with you_ out of it. Having a fantasy that your husband is making you jealous by fucking you is sort of confusing. Which, really, just makes it all the more Enjolras-y.

“I made you mad,” Enjolras says immediately, although he looks kind of confused. His mouth and body knows what they’re doing, but his brain is still catching up. Grantaire turns them down another street. “I said something wrong or insensitive and you did that thing where you storm out and fuck someone on the other side of the wall. And then you pretend like nothing happened the next morning, and I pretend nothing happened, even though we both know I got off to it.”

Grantaire very definitely did not know that and ends up squeezing hard on Enjolras’ hip. “But it’s not morning yet,” Grantaire says. “I stormed out, and I met a woman because I was _looking_ for a woman, because I want your hair and your eyes but I’m too ashamed to go the whole way, and because I know you’ll hear.”

“It probably took you five words to convince me to come back,” Enjolras says, which is, well. He might be overestimating Grantaire’s pick-up abilities there. But then again Enjolras is kind of easy for Grantaire and is completely ridiculous, so he probably assumes everyone else in the world is just as attracted to him as Enjolras is. It’s kind of amazing what he’s learning about Enjolras from this.

“And here we are,” Grantaire says, which makes Enjolras more than a little confused, and that’s reasonable. Grantaire brought them to the back door of a not-that-great hotel, and thinks about his options for a moment before releasing Enjolras and walking in by himself, Enjolras’ heels clacking behind him on the floor. 

When they hit the lobby (an _actual_ lobby this time), Enjolras takes his purse back and goes off to do something while Grantaire heads for the concierge.

“Hello, we need a room,” he tells the woman behind the counter. She obviously saw them come in together, probably has the (accurate) conclusion in her mind, and like any professional she doesn’t say anything about it. She’s all smiles until Grantaire hands over his card. She blinks at him, and then glances over at Enjolras, and looks back at Grantaire.

He has never in his life seen a woman look this completely betrayed.

“How could you?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“Wait, no, I-” Grantaire begins, but she’s reaching the _angry_ phase.

“How could you do this to him?!” she hisses out.

And Grantaire doesn’t know how to deal with this and is worried he might start panicking so Grantaire just looks back and shouts, “Enjolras!”

Enjolras turns, frowning and immediately alert, obviously in the middle of reapplying lipstick, and says, “What?”

“Ohmigod,” the concierge says. It sounds a bit like squeaking. Grantaire waves him off, and Enjolras shrugs and goes back to primping. “Is this a…is this a normal thing for him?”

“Oh, this is _very_ new,” Grantaire says, and ends up rubbing at his eyes because this is _insane_. His husband is examining his dress’ hem line while a fan books them a hotel room so they can fulfill Enjolras’ fantasy of making himself jealous of himself.

The concierge takes a moment to stare at them, and then turns back to her computer. “I’ll reserve the rooms around you too,” she mutters, a slight blush on her cheeks, and hands Grantaire a key.

“Thank you,” Grantaire says sincerely, and the moment he has the key in hand he doesn’t even have to say anything. Enjolras strides over and purposefully wraps Grantaire’s arm around his waist again, so clearly this is working for him. When they’ve moved away from the awkwardly thrilled concierge and into the elevator, he watches Enjolras. He’s tapping one of his feet against the floor of the elevator, looks shades away from bouncing, and Grantaire can’t help the way his lips quirk. “You’ve never actually done this, have you?”

“Done what?” Enjolras asks. “There’s a lot of things about this I’ve never done before.”

“Okay, not _this_ ,” Grantaire says, and gestures to hopefully encompass the drag, the hotel, the way Enjolras leans into Grantaire. He does this when he’s tired and shameless, but that’s really the only time Enjolras lets Grantaire support his weight. It’s always the other way around. He thinks about how to say what he means, and settles on, “You don’t go back to hotel rooms with people. You don’t get picked up, or pick people up, or-”

“Right now I do,” Enjolras says firmly, and for a moment Grantaire thinks he actually gets what’s going on, that Enjolras understands this is something he’s built up in his mind, but no. The elevator door opens, and he somehow manages to be faster in heels than Grantaire is in regular shoes, standing, _vibrating_ in front of the hotel room door. He gets a tight hold of Grantaire’s shoulder and says, “Come on, come on, hurry up.”

It would not be a good time to tell Enjolras to calm down, so he slots the keycard into the lock and opens it. Enjolras, per usual, is first through the door, scoping out the very simple room inside. One queen-sized bed, one desk with a mirror over it, one attached bathroom, two nice and airy windows, it’s all very standard. Grantaire locks the door and places the key on the desk while Enjolras checks the bathroom for assassins or something. “What happens now?” he asks.

Enjolras’ head pops out of the bathroom door, frowning and confused.

“I’m pissed off at you, and I brought someone to my hotel room,” Grantaire prompts, gesturing at the room. Enjolras really obviously has no idea what he’s doing, and Grantaire tries to not find it endearing, he really does. “You said you want to know what it’d be like on this side of the wall.”

Enjolras’ frown darkens, scowling at the concept, because he’s quickly becoming jealous. Of himself. Which is absurd. “I can always tell when you’re doing this,” he says, and walks out to put his purse on the desk with the key. “I can’t predict when you’ll do this and when you’ll just pout, but it’s obvious when you go for the torture method.”

He has Grantaire pressed up against a wall fairly quickly, and it’s the same as in the atrium, so Grantaire can at least see what’s happening here. “And this doesn’t matter to me,” Grantaire says, because he can understand this part of Enjolras’ very strange mind. “I care about you hearing, not about whoever is in here with me.”

“All you care about is making me scream right so I can hear it,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire has manicured fingers under his shirt again, but it’s different this time. It’s accompanied by Enjolras leaning down to press his head against Grantaire’s collarbone, but he steps closer, gets one dark nylon-clad thigh between Grantaire’s legs. “But all I can concentrate on is when _you_ make noise, you fucking _tease_ , I’d end up leaning against the wall listening to every noise you made with my hand around my cock-”

“Oh, fuck,” Grantaire says, voice strangled, and he cooperates immediately when Enjolras pushes Grantaire’s coat off of his shoulders, when he barely avoids ripping Grantaire’s shirt as he violently pulls it over Grantaire’s head.

He grinds down against Enjolras’ thigh because he _has to_ , and Enjolras bites his earlobe hard enough to hurt, hard enough to make Grantaire wince. He says, “And they were _nothing_ to you in the face of what you feel for me, you just fucking _used_ them, for me, and I wanted to be on the other side of that wall so fucking bad, Grantaire, I wanted it so bad.”

“It was just me making noise at first,” Grantaire says. “Just for you.”

“ _Yes._ You didn’t kiss them,” Enjolras says. “You never kissed them, because you wanted it to be me.”

It’s completely untrue that he never kissed his one night stands, but Grantaire nods anyway. If he wants some kind of Pretty Woman concept involved in this, Grantaire can go for that. Fuck, if Enjolras wants _anything_ , Grantaire can go for that. Enjolras scrapes his nails down Grantaire’s chest, and his nails catch on one of Grantaire’s nipples, and he hisses. “Tell me-”

“I shouldn’t say – it’s rude, it’s degrading, it’s not sex positive,” Enjolras says, and he sounds desperate.

Grantaire very valiantly fights the urge to roll his eyes, and says it for him. “They were sluts.”

And that seems to make it okay, because Enjolras moans, one hand snagging in Grantaire’s hair so hard it hurts while the other scrapes a nail just above his pants. “They were sluts, they were gagging for you, they wanted you so bad, I could _hear it_ ,” he breathes out. “And you moaned but you moaned for _me_ , they were – they were just-”

“Placeholders,” Grantaire finishes for him, and Enjolras removes the thigh that Grantaire is pressed against and probably going to ruin the tights or nylons or whatever the fuck they’re called.

Enjolras’ hands snap to the fly of Grantaire’s pants and he bends so that his forehead is pressed against Grantaire’s chest, and this is very very obviously already _really_ getting to Enjolras because he says, “Please, please, let me-”

“Do it,” Grantaire says, and it’s mental whiplash to see Enjolras go from the incredibly sexually frustrated to the point of nearing anger version of himself to some sort of desperate slutty woman whose hands shake as they shove Grantaire’s pants and underwear off of his hips. It’s _insane_. 

Enjolras spreads his legs to an obscene width and bends at the waist (and there’s that helpless _nnh_ again, it’s driving Grantaire crazy, if this wasn’t all about Enjolras he would be begging to see) and grabs Grantaire’s hips. He doesn’t kneel. He bends over, and drags his lips over Grantaire’s cock.

He’s supposed to be loud, so he is, louder than he ever dared to be with Enjolras on the other side of the wall. It makes Enjolras fucking whimper around his cock, and it feels _amazing_. And Enjolras’ position is ridiculous, and Grantaire tries to figure out why he’s doing this specifically, why he’s doing it this way, but it’s really fucking difficult to think beyond Enjolras’ desperate mouth on his cock.

The dress’ skirt doesn’t fully cover him in this position, just barely makes it over the curve of his ass, but the mirror is too far away so he can’t _see_ , which is a fucking shame. But Grantaire is going to figure this out. He has a hand in Enjolras’ hair, keeps thinking _he wants to hear me_ , and thinks about how he’s intentionally trying to be some sort of super-slut because he’s completely ridiculous, and Grantaire figures it out. Hopefully. Maybe. Well, it probably won’t hurt either way.

Grantaire reaches out with the hand he has stroking through Enjolras’ hair and barely believes what he’s doing when he smacks Enjolras’ ass.

Enjolras immediately pulls his mouth away from Grantaire and falls to his knees, with that same _nnahg_ noise, panting and clinging to Grantaire’s hips, and what the fuck? Grantaire tries to do some sort of soothing petting, says, “You-”

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Enjolras says, and he just keeps panting, licking and kissing Grantaire’s cock. He keeps saying, “Grantaire, _Grantaire_ , oh fuck,” and sounds _shattered_.

Grantaire has clearly done something good.

“What’s going on with the underwear, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, makes it something between a question and an order. It’s the _stop and talk_ tone of voice he’s developed, because he can’t say stop and he can’t say no and he _doesn’t_ want to stop. He just wants to know what the fuck is happening.

“I wanted. This isn’t what I planned,” Enjolras says, awkward. “I wanted you to be able to just _fuck me_ , wanted you to be able to just, I don’t know, just slide inside or-”

“Oh my fucking god,” Grantaire blurts out, because he gets it, and _holy fucking shit_. “Oh my god Enjolras, you didn’t.”

Enjolras is blushing.

Enjolras is actually _blushing_.

Grantaire ends up grabbing at his own hair, gaping at Enjolras.

“It’s not big, I’ve only had it in for probably an hour, two at the most, it’s – I thought you’d like it,” Enjolras says. He’s as red as his dress. His lipstick is smeared and imperfect from sucking Grantaire’s cock and his hair is a glorious mess and Enjolras really should wear mascara more, his eyelashes are long and gorgeous and he’s looking up at Grantaire almost carefully. “Was I wrong?”

“You did this for like seventy percent fucked up wrong reasons but holy _fuck_ Enjolras, no, you were not wrong, oh my god,” Grantaire says, and somehow manages to get Enjolras onto his feet. Enjolras is biting his lip the whole way up, like he’s still trying to pretend he doesn’t have a plug up his ass. “Okay, you, _fuck_ , if you’re on the other side of the wall-”

“Against the wall,” Enjolras says immediately, and begins to lift the skirt of his dress inelegantly, which is just such a shame of a good opportunity, so Grantaire gets a light hold on his hands.

“Do you want the dress on or off?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras looks incredibly torn, so Grantaire adds, “You’d still have the bra on either way.”

“Keep it on,” Enjolras decides.

He looks surprised when Grantaire drops to his knees, for some reason. “You put a lot of work into this, let me appreciate it,” Grantaire says simply, and that seems to make sense to Enjolras. He nods, and leans back against the wall, lets Grantaire spread his legs. It makes Enjolras whimper again, but he keeps it quiet.

The curve of Enjolras’ ankle is beautiful, gives him an elegant curling line all the way up his thigh, and the nylons’ line down the back isn’t just for show, Grantaire realizes. Which, of course they aren’t. Not if he went to their friendly glove maker. It’s probably the same reason Enjolras’ heels are a perfect fit, why the lace that tops his nylons is just frilly enough to be obscene, but not absurd. The garters are a strip of black satin, one in front, one in back, attached to a subdued black garter belt that hangs just above Enjolras’ panties.

They’re not quite the same fabric as the nylons, but it’s close, and not nearly as tight as Grantaire had expected. It doesn’t keep Enjolras’ cock from straining against the black fabric, though, the area directly in front of the head of his cock wet. Grantaire grabs his ankles, keeps his legs apart, and reminds himself that Enjolras _wants this_ , dressed up for this, planned for this, and it’s for fucked up reasons but they’re pure Enjolras. He leans forward and kisses Enjolras’ cock through the panties, keeping Enjolras’ ankles firmly in place.

Enjolras breathes out his name, slides his hands down Grantaire’s naked back. “That’s good, Grantaire,” he says, breathy, and Grantaire licks him, slow and wet, the thin fabric rough against his tongue. Enjolras’ legs jerk, try to close, and then try to spread wider, but Grantaire keeps him in place.

“Can I take you out?” Grantaire asks, and suddenly it’s _urgent_ , he _needs it_ , so he says it again, says it more precisely. “Please, can I take your cock out of your panties, or maybe take your panties off completely-”

“Slowly,” Enjolras says, sounding completely like himself all of a sudden. There’s no fantasy-driven manic edge to him. Grantaire is sure the nonsensical whiplash will come back, but for now, it’s welcome, it’s very welcome. So are the manicured nails. He should do that even when he’s not pretending to be a woman.

Grantaire obeys, letting go of Enjolras’ ankles so he can carefully slide his hands up Enjolras’ legs, feel the nylon shift under his fingers and a light tremor in the muscles beneath. He travels from ankles to the tops of his stockings, to that little bit of frill, and Enjolras’ skin is soft and warm and fuck, he wants his cock so bad. But _slowly_ , Enjolras had said, and Grantaire can do that. He catches the top of Enjolras’ panties between his fingers, lets himself wrap his lips around the tip of Enjolras’ cock through the fabric. The fabric is wet by now, clinging beautifully, and Grantaire carefully pulls Enjolras’ underwear down his thighs, making it slow and lingering. It’s probably not what Enjolras meant by _slow_ , but he gasps and grabs onto Grantaire’s shoulder tighter than before, breathes out his name.

Enjolras’ garters and stockings are in the way of getting the underwear all the way off, which is fine, it is definitely fine. Grantaire wasn’t told he could suck his cock, wasn’t told he could even touch, so he kisses Enjolras’ inner thigh.

“I’m pretty sure they’re off, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, somewhere between fondness and irritation.

And it feels _so_ weird, but he knows what he’s supposed to be doing here, so he squeezes Enjolras’ thighs. Enjolras mutters something under his breath, and Grantaire can’t hear it, but he knows from the tone that he’s getting impatient.

What Grantaire has realized and Enjolras has not (although to be honest there’s a lot of things that could go in that category right now) is that Enjolras wants to make himself jealous of himself, yes, but it goes both ways. Enjolras was jealous of the women Grantaire fucked, and he _loves_ the idea that the women Grantaire fucked were just as jealous of Enjolras. It’s a delicate balance he’s dealing with when it comes to Enjolras’ very very confusing fantasy here, but he would walk across chasms on a spider’s thread for Enjolras. He can do this.

So, he grabs Enjolras’ ass and _squeezes_ , and Enjolras honest to god shouts, nothing sexy about it, more a yelp of surprise and a little bit of pain than anything else Grantaire could label it as. This is very definitely his first time ever having a plug in his ass. He leans hard against the wall, making incoherent noises, and Grantaire stands up.

“Oh god damn it, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, in the same sort of tone you tell someone _oh god damn it I stubbed my toe_. And really, it’s true, it makes sense why Enjolras is just falling right out of this because they _don’t_ do much of any sort of fantasy thing, because for Grantaire it’s just mindblowing to be with Enjolras, _period_.

So he presses close, until he can feel those very impressive fake breasts pressing against his chest, and prompts, “So here we are in the hotel, with you against the wall, panties halfway down your thighs.”

There are other things he could say, other things he’s pretty much already prepared himself to say, but he’s reminded of the gloves. Getting Enjolras to admit something and getting Enjolras to _indulge it_ can be very different things sometimes, and transitioning from one to the other isn’t always easy.

“Oh, fuck,” Enjolras breathes out, like he’s just remembered what’s going on.

“I wonder what happens next,” Grantaire says.

“Tell me,” Enjolras says, getting a grip on Grantaire’s hair that is almost painful. “Tell me, were you – were you rough, were you slow, did you tease them like you teased me, did you take your frustration out on them?”

The honest answer is that he just had simple frantic fun as loudly as possible and then felt guilty for a week for using someone to annoy Enjolras like that. Obviously, this isn’t the answer to give Enjolras – he’s built this up in his head for four years.

Grantaire just repeats what Enjolras has been saying, and says, “I just used them. I never kissed them, I was rough and they wanted it, even if I didn’t give a fuck what they wanted, because I only wanted you to hear. And you did.”

“I did,” Enjolras agrees, and takes a deep breath, bends to press his head against Grantaire’s shoulder. “I want to _know_ , Grantaire. I want to-”

“You want to be the slut on the other side of the wall,” Grantaire finishes for him. “You want what I gave them and you never got.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Enjolras says, like it’s the first time he’s actually understood what he’s asking for, and wraps his arms around Grantaire’s shoulders. Enjolras thrusts against him, the fine soft cotton of his red dress between their cocks, and Enjolras’ head jerks upwards, towards the ceiling. “I want that, Grantaire, I want that so fucking bad, I want to know what I missed.”

“You already started it,” Grantaire says, and grabs onto Enjolras’ ass again, pushing him forwards against Grantaire’s thigh again. With the plug, Enjolras ends up clinging to Grantaire’s shoulders so hard his manicure is probably drawing blood. “I’d let them suck my cock, and I let you do that already, and this is the part where I’d fuck them against the wall you’d lean against. I’d just slide inside and use them, and make them scream, and that’s what I’m going to do to you.”

“Oh fuck yes,” Enjolras says, and it’s a mutual effort when Enjolras wraps his legs around Grantaire and Grantaire grabs onto him, keeps him there as he ends up biting his lip because of the plug, and Grantaire is _so_ curious. He reaches around, presses Enjolras tight and angled against the wall as he slowly pulls the plug out. And pulls. And pulls. Enjolras is panting and looks like he’s being strangled.

When Grantaire looks at the plug, any and all fantasy concepts evaporate because he ends up glaring at Enjolras and honest to god shouting, “You call this fucking _small?!_ ”

“There were bigger ones at the store,” Enjolras says, as if it’s perfectly logical and Grantaire is just being oh so silly. He’s still panting against the wall, and moves a hand so he can grab a rough handful of Grantaire’s hair. “Weren’t you doing something?”

“We’re going to talk about this,” Grantaire says.

“ _Now?_ ” Enjolras asks, halfway to whining, and he is absolutely one hundred percent cheating when he digs his high heels into Grantaire’s back and arches, thrusts his dress-covered cock against Grantaire. It takes effort because his fucking panties are keeping his legs just a little bit constricted, not able to spread as much as he’d probably like.

“You are so lucky you want me to fuck you like I’m angry,” Grantaire says.

“Then fucking _do it_ , Grantaire,” Enjolras snaps.

Grantaire does, and _fuck_ , he just slides right in. Enjolras is ready and waiting and eager for him, because this is what Enjolras wanted. This is what he _prepared_ for, what he was hoping would happen all along. “Jesus, you really are desperate, aren’t you,” he says.

“I am so, so desperate,” Enjolras agrees, and rides Grantaire like his life depends on it. All Grantaire can do is try to keep up and stay on his feet, open mouth pressed against the high collar of Enjolras’ _fucking_ red dress. “Anyone would be desperate for you, Grantaire, _fuck_.”

“You think so?” Grantaire asks, and gets a tighter hold on Enjolras’ hips, thrusts harder, makes Enjolras moan louder.

“I bet you just – you just saw me, just had to do that fucking _smile_ of yours, the one that makes me want to fuck your mouth so hard you fucking cry,” Enjolras says, and holy shit, Grantaire has no idea what smile he’s talking about but he needs to know as soon as possible. “And I would follow you back here and I’d let you do _anything_ to me if you’d do it again, I’d just want you to smile for me, I’d just want-”

“You’d want me to love you,” Grantaire says. “But I never would.”

“Because I’m just a placeholder of a slut you make scream against the wall because you want _me_ ,” Enjolras says, and he makes a frustrated noise, so obscene that Grantaire ends up staring at him. Enjolras lets go of him, and gets his fingernails into the fabric of his panties, and literally rips his underwear off of his thighs, tosses the ruined fabric away without caring where it lands, and Grantaire groans against his chest. He’s going to make a mess of Enjolras’ dress. He doesn’t really give a fuck.

Grantaire says, “But I know it’s you.”

Enjolras makes a tight, questioning noise.

“I know you just put on a fucking dress and heels and makeup and waited for me, hoped I’d see you and take you back here,” Grantaire says. “Because you’d look _so much_ like Enjolras, wouldn’t you, and you’ve gotten so desperate.”

“Oh fuck,” Enjolras gasps, and he grabs at Grantaire’s shoulders. His voice is high and needy, like he’s begging without getting the words out. “Oh, fuck, if I – I could’ve gotten there, I could’ve reached that point, fuck, I could’ve done that, Grantaire. Would you know? Would you know it’s me?”

“Of course I’d fucking know, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, because it’s a ridiculous question. “Of _course_ I’d know, I’d know who you are and what you’re doing the second I saw you in this dress.”

“But you’d pretend you don’t,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire is ramming him into the wall now, probably bruising Enjolras’ shoulder blades, but he is definitely not complaining. “You’d – oh _fuck_ , Grantaire, you’d – we’d fuck so hard, for so long, leave your room a mess, and then in the morning – _Grantaire_ , oh _fuck_ , harder.”

Grantaire shifts how Enjolras is slamming against the wall, gives himself a better angle, and obeys. Grantaire might be hallucinating because he’s pretty sure he saw Enjolras’ eyes roll into the back of his head for a moment while he _shouts_ , deep, loud breaths.

“The morning?” Grantaire prompts.

“ _Nothing_ , fucking nothing in the morning, like it never – like it never happened,” Enjolras manages to say, and then he hisses out, “Fuck it,” and wraps a hand around his cock, stroking himself hard and fast. “But then, then we’d. There’d be another city. Another dress. Another room.” He lets out a frustrated half-moan half-whine noise. “Grantaire, _Grantaire_ , give me-”

He doesn’t even have to finish the sentence, Grantaire just knows what he’s asking for. He keeps Enjolras wedged between him and the wall tight enough that he can spare a hand, wrap it around Enjolras’ cock. He barely has time to swipe his thumb over the head of Enjolras’ cock before he’s coming, and his heels jam into Grantaire’s back so hard Grantaire has to bite his own lip to keep from shouting.

“Oh _fuck_ , Grantaire,” Enjolras says. His legs loosen, and Grantaire pulls out, steps back, because he thinks that’s what Enjolras wants. He’s very obviously wrong because Enjolras sags hard against the wall and makes an objecting noise, grabs at where he’d been for a moment. “No, but I – this is fine though, it’s okay, you’re good, I just.” His chest is heaving, trying to get his breath back. “Get on the bed.”

Grantaire considers asking why, but decides to just follow orders instead. He’s still painfully hard, still feels more than a little unhinged, but he falls back onto the nice bed, staring at the ceiling. Grantaire tries to get his breath back, and finally props himself up on his elbows to see what Enjolras is doing.

He’s not even looking at Grantaire when he unzips his red dress, drops it unceremoniously to the carpeted floor. It leaves Enjolras in his garters and stockings and a matching lacy black bra that, when he turns back to face Grantaire, makes him look like he really _does_ have breasts. It is very strange. And he still has the fucking high heels on, still wears them like it’s second nature. If Enjolras hadn’t _literally_ torn his own underwear off so he could fuck Grantaire harder, he could still easily pass for a woman.

When Enjolras walks over it’s not quite a _sashay_ , it’s more like he naturally compensates for the heels with an extra jut of his hips. Grantaire desperately wants to know where the fuck he learned this – he can guess ‘growing up with aristocrat supermodel parents’ but he wants so much more information. 

Enjolras straddles him, casual about it. By now, Grantaire barely even notices when Enjolras grabs his come-covered hand and starts licking. It’s just a thing that he’ll never understand no matter how many times Enjolras tries to explain.

Grantaire clears his throat and says, “So, what are we-”

Enjolras casually slides himself back onto Grantaire’s cock, pulling Grantaire’s fingers deeper into his mouth. He doesn’t move beyond that, just stays seated there like there’s nothing at all happening. But Grantaire can see the slight shudder in his stomach, the way his thighs are spread just that much farther than is really needed for this.

He pulls Grantaire’s fingers out of his mouth to say, “Thank you for that. I know – well. I know I didn’t do this right. I will next time.” Enjolras is obviously trying to sound completely composed, like he’s trying to pretend that he isn’t very, very lightly rocking up and down on Grantaire’s cock. He manages it, for the most part. If Grantaire didn’t have a habit of staring at Enjolras like a creep, he might actually believe it.

“Good to know,” Grantaire says, and sounds mostly sane. He can’t think of any polite way to say it, so he says, “Are you sure you want to keep doing this?” Enjolras frowns, tilts his head like an inquisitive cat. “I mean, I would absolutely be fine with, you know, a hand instead if you-”

Enjolras shuts him up by sharply sliding himself up and down Grantaire’s cock, merciless, and giving Grantaire a raised eyebrow in that _do you really want to start this conversation_ way of his.

“Fuck, okay, I’m okay with this,” Grantaire wheezes out.

“I thought so,” Enjolras says, and runs his manicured nails down Grantaire’s sides, almost experimental about it. “Like I said, I know I fucked this up, but the fact is. The fact’s that we’re at about a 60-40 ratio for penetration, and I thought maybe that wasn’t good for you. If you fucked women as equally as men, you’d be at a minimum of 50%, and then If I add men you’re at _least_ 75% and that’s _all_ sex with men, not just penetrative, when you’d probably be at what, 90%? Maybe _more_?”

“What the fuck, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. “Didn’t I explain-”

“I can’t just take that as truth, Grantaire,” Enjolras says firmly, and he starts going faster, _fuck_. His voice becomes breathier with every movement. “You don’t always tell the truth, you don’t – I want to give you anything you could possibly want, but you’d never fuck someone other than me. I could, _fuck_ , I could plant a naked woman in our bed with _written permission_ and you wouldn’t do it.”

“This is so fucking weird,” Grantaire breathes out. “I don’t need women to survive, Enjolras. You’re all I want.”

“But what if that changes?” Enjolras rushes through the question, awkward and insecure, and his nails bite almost gently into Grantaire’s ribs. “What if – what if some day you wake up and-”

“I won’t,” Grantaire says, and grabs onto Enjolras’ left hand, the one with the wedding ring, tries to concentrate on the _ridiculous_ conversation while Enjolras rides his cock in heels and black lingerie. “I love you, I don’t give a fuck what’s in your pants, you could, _fuck_ Enjolras, you could have a – fuck, I don’t know, a _tentacle_ -”

“I could get one,” Enjolras says immediately, and Grantaire laughs like he’s losing his mind, strangled and more than a little unhinged. “I just want you to be _happy_ , I just – Grantaire, I love you, I want you to have everything.”

“I don’t want everything, I want _you_ , fuck everything else,” Grantaire says.

“And you’d tell me,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire didn’t think it was possible for him to move faster. Grantaire gasps, throws his head back and groans as Enjolras just fucking _destroys him_. “Grantaire, you’d _tell me_ if you want something, swear to me-”

“I swear, Enjolras, but _fuck_ , why would I ever want anything else,” Grantaire manages to say. Enjolras makes a high noise and his nails dig into Grantaire’s hair, drag against his scalp as the headboard slams against the wall and it’s so insane and _glorious_.

“I am going to keep you so fucking happy forever, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire can’t breathe. Enjolras’ nails are teasing down his chest, other hand keeping his head pinned to the mattress as he fucks Grantaire senseless. Grantaire can barely hear, barely understand what’s being said as Enjolras leans down to bite at his collarbone and say, “I will keep you _so_ happy and content and perfect and _mine_.”

Grantaire’s brain fucking _explodes_ , and he ends up grabbing Enjolras’ thighs tight enough to bruise as he comes.

Enjolras rocks forward to kiss him through it, perfectly filthy with frantic breaths, like Enjolras is scared to miss it.

“I need to know what you need in our relationship,” Enjolras says into Grantaire’s skin, shifting to bite at Grantaire’s jaw.

He swallows, shuddering. “Can we – can we have this conversation later? Please?”

Enjolras stops moving and looks brutally conflicted, like he’s being forced to choose between using the words _liberty_ and _justice_ for an important slogan.

So, Grantaire grabs his other hand, grip tight enough to hurt, and repeats, “Enjolras, _please_.”

Everything is agonizingly still for a moment, Grantaire fighting to regain his breath, and then Enjolras shakes his hand out of Grantaire’s. He drops it so fast that Grantaire feels completely lost for a moment, almost abandoned, but then he realizes why Enjolras did it. Enjolras reaches back and picks at the hooks of his bra, ineffectively grabbing and tugging and it’s completely hilarious. “Stop laughing,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire takes pity on him and manages to sit up, reaching back and batting Enjolras’ hands away so he can undo the catch for him. He snickers into Enjolras’ shoulder. “Never taken a bra off before?”

“Not off of myself, no, I’ve never had the privilege, did I tell you to sit up?” Enjolras says. He may not be good at unhooking the bra, but he definitely knows how to yank it off in record time, tossing it across the room carelessly.

“No, you did not tell me to sit up,” Grantaire says, because needling Enjolras is a beautiful pastime, and because he is not expecting Enjolras’ manicured nails to suddenly bite into his scalp and drag his head back sharply, forcing him to look up at Enjolras’ very much _Enjolras_ face. His lipstick is long gone, as is most of the makeup other than the mascara that makes him look even more dramatic.

Enjolras releases him suddenly, and pushes him flat onto the bed once again. “You just want _me_ ,” he echoes. “You say that a lot, Grantaire. But I don’t want you to _just_ want me.”

Grantaire swallows, carefully silent, because he has no idea where Enjolras is going with this.

“I want so much more than just,” Enjolras breathes out. “And I want it forever. Whatever you want, whatever you need or won’t admit you like, I’m going to discover and give it to you.”

Enjolras still has no idea this was all about _him_ , not Grantaire.

Grantaire doesn’t have the heart to tell him.

That, and Grantaire is definitely not complaining about this, _ever_. Weird in all of the best Enjolras ways.

“Then figure out what I want right now,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras grins, and doesn’t stop kissing him all the way into the shower.


End file.
